Christ! The oncoming truck was passing her the instant Vail had to swerve left into his lane to avoid smashing into the Chrysler. She narrowly cleared the truck’s rear and was now driving in the opposing lane.
Heart pounding hard in her ears. Bam, bam, bam. Calm yourself, Karen. Focus!
She reached for the switch to turn on her headlights—but the Chrysler swerved into her, pushing her Ford further left. Onto the shoulder.
Vail tightened her grip on the wheel and leaned right, as if that would help pull the car away from the oncoming tree line.
The two vehicles were of similar size and mass, so Vail had only one option available to her: She slammed on the brakes. Screeching tires . . . ripping scraping metal as her front fender tore along the left side of his sedan.
The Chrysler braked before she was able to clear the rear of his car. She yanked her wheel hard right and accelerated. Her engine groaned in protest.
But Vail had leverage on her side and the Chrysler whipped into a violent counterclockwise spin. He swung around and smashed into her left front fender, and they careened to Vail’s right, off Silverado Trail, and slammed through the wire-and-wood fence. She struck a divot in the shoulder and went in nose-first, but the Chrysler hit the gully at an odd angle with greater force and flipped trunk-over-hood. It tumbled backward before coming to rest upside down. Vail’s Ford wedged itself in the furrow, at the edge of a vineyard.
Holy shit.
She took a deep breath and seized into a coughing fit. Grabbed the dashboard to calm the spasm, then steadied herself. Eyes blurry with tears. Head aching.
She forced herself to assess the situation: Airbag did not deploy. Front end lodged in some kind of ditch. And it was dark.
She turned on her headlights; the lone working lamp illuminated a portion of the vineyard ahead of her. She caught a glimpse of her face in the rearview mirror, which was cocked at an odd angle. She had a gash on her forehead above the left eye. Fuck it. Get out of the car and find the asshole who did this to you.
Vail pushed the driver’s door open and tumbled out of the Ford. A few yards off to the right, nestled among the vines, was the Chrysler, spouting a fog of smoky steam from the front grill. She pulled her Glock—which she should’ve done before exiting the Ford—and scrambled toward the overturned car, the pistol out in front of her.
Vail shooed away the smoke and peered through the windshield, which was diffusely lit by the brightness from her headlight. But it appeared to be empty. She swung around and fired a round into the lamp, throwing her—and her pursuer—into charcoal darkness. She then headed off in the opposite direction. If her pursuer was nearby, she didn’t want him to have the advantage of seeing her. The risk of him hearing her gunshot, and thereby locating her, was fairly low. Unless he saw the muzzle blast, it was more difficult to pinpoint location based on a single shot you were not expecting.
Vail moved around the upended vehicle, encircling it, looking for signs of where its occupant could’ve gone. Just about impossible in the near-darkness. But out of the corner of her peripheral vision, she caught something—the blur of motion, perhaps, along with the rustle of leaves. She ran toward the object, her Glock firmly clasped in both hands out in front of her.
As she neared the approximate location, she sensed something slip past her, a row to her left. She dipped to the ground, rolled beneath the lowest hanging vines and cross-wires, then rolled through to the adjacent aisle. There—ahead, maybe thirty feet in the darkness, her brain combined the vague blur of motion with the shift of dirt being displaced by shoes.
Vail pushed forward, a bit more cautiously, sensing that her quarry had stopped moving. She felt the brush of nascent grape leaves against her cheek and she nearly unloaded her weapon into the unsuspecting vine. But she regrouped and kept moving down the aisle.
Absent a nearby city and a visible moon, there was scant external light. There had been times in her career when she wished she had another fully loaded magazine; at other times, she longed for the easy reach of her weapon—any weapon. Now all she wished for was her Maglite.
Something to the left—movement. She turned in its direction, brought her Glock up, and felt the rush of air by her cheek before a powerful punch exploded into her temple. She fell backward and went down, falling against a mess of vines and supporting cross-wires—which, although rough, served as a cradle. She lay there a second, dazed, until—somewhere off in the distance—she heard rustling leaves, then felt something swipe at her left arm, knocking the Glock from her grip. Two hands grabbed her by the blouse and yanked her up out of the tangle of branches.
Vail focused her eyes and saw the face of her pursuer. But she did not let the revelation of who it was delay her response. She brought her knee up hard, into Scott Fuller’s groin, then, as he doubled over, she cupped her right fist and slammed her hands down onto the back of his neck. Now it was his turn to go down.
“You prick,” she said, standing over him. “You fucking tried to kill me!” She thought of kicking him in the face, which would likely loosen a few teeth as well as render him unconscious—but she needed answers first. “I know about your juvie record, the arson,” she said.
“You don’t know shit,” Fuller said between clenched teeth. He fought off the pain but rose into a stooped posture.
“I know it’s enough to get you booted off the force. A cop convicted of arson as a teen investigating an arson committed against a federal agent that cop didn’t like? Sounds pretty fucking bad, Scott.”
She stepped to her left, hoping to come across her pistol before Fuller rushed her—or worse—pulled his sidearm. On her second step she felt a hard crunch. As Fuller moved toward her, she brought the weapon up and swung it in line with his chest. “Where were you the night of Victoria Cameron’s murder?”
He did not raise his hands. Did not flinch. “Fuck you. I don’t owe you any explanations.”
“Did you set the fire to my room?”
A broad smile spread his lips.
“I guess that’s my answer.”
“Go pound sand, Vail.”
“Fine, you don’t want to talk to me, you can face your stepfather. I doubt the sheriff will be happy to hear my theories. Because pretty soon, we’ll have all the evidence we need—”
That was all she got out—because in the next moment she felt a sharp prick, followed almost immediately by a dizzying sway. The ground moved beneath her. She lost her footing. And all went black.
TWENTY-FIVE
An acrid scent stung her nose. A sour taste coated her tongue. A chill blew across her face. And her back felt wet.
Vail opened her eyes, but saw nothing. No, not nothing—she tracked left and right, and saw stars. She was lying supine, looking at the sky. She started to sit up—but a wave of nausea hit her like a bad flu. Vail lay back down and wondered where she was, why she was on the ground. She turned her head left—saw vines—and realized she was in a vineyard.
How? Why?
To her right she saw more of the same. Darkness. Flora. And a pair of boots. But not just any boots; they looked like the ones Scott Fuller wore. Fighting the dizziness, Vail forced herself onto her right side to get a better look, pushing up her torso with her left hand, slowly, into a sitting position. That’s when she saw it.
Fuller was also on his back, and though it was dark, she could tell he was not moving. Incapacitated, like her. Her senses were slowly returning. Her head hurt and she brought a hand up to her temple. It felt bruised, swollen.
Something was irritating her nose. It was a scent she knew all too well. Blood.
Reached for her Glock. Not there. Oh, this is not good. Weapon gone, unconscious in a field, blood somewhere nearby, and no fucking idea how I got here.
“Scott, wake up,” Vail said. She shut her eyes, trying to will away the dizziness. She leaned forward and got onto all fours, then began feeling around in the dirt, searching for her missing Glock.
Wait. I was following anothe
r car. Headlights. . . .
Felt around. Nothing. She swung around in another direction, to the right, trying to keep some sort of directional sense as to where she was going so she didn’t double back on herself.
Car tried to force me off the road. Went into a ditch, it flipped—
Still failing to locate her pistol, she hung another right turn and crawled back toward her starting point.
Fuller. Fuller in the other car. He tried to run me off the road. Rooney—sealed arson record on Fuller. Bastard.
Vail crawled toward Fuller to get his handgun. Then she would wake him and find out what the hell he did to her—and why. Then, and only then, maybe she’d kill him. At least, that’s what she felt like doing.
Vail came upon Fuller’s boots, yanked on them. The movement made her nauseous. “Fuller, wake up!” But he didn’t respond. She scrabbled forward, grabbed his shirt to give him a good shake, but it was wet. Not just wet, but slimy and thick. Blood.
That’s the blood I smelled. Fuller’s?
She drew back, wiped her hands on her blouse, then peered closer to try to get a better look at where he was bleeding. She felt for his wrist, for a pulse. But there was nothing. Jesus Christ. What the hell happened here?
Argument with Fuller. Sharp—she brought her right hand to her neck. Something stuck her neck. She remembered that. But Fuller? Dead? Why wasn’t she killed, too?
And if Fuller had tried to burn her alive, then who’d want to kill him—and leave her among the living?
Cell phone—she needed to call someone. Robby. Dixon. Where did she keep it? Come on, Karen, think.
She felt around and located her BlackBerry. Couldn’t find Robby’s or Dixon’s number. New phone. Shit! She paged to the call log. A DC number—Rooney. She hit Call and waited while it rang. He answered on the first ring.
“Karen. Everything okay?”
His voice was amplified, like he was on a headset. “No, Art, things are all fucked up. I—I don’t know what happened. I think I was drugged—”
“Drugged—where are you?”
She slowly turned. It was dark . . . no lights of any kind. “I’m in the middle of nowhere. A vineyard, I’m in a vineyard. More than that, I don’t know. I remember driving on—on Silver . . . Silverado. Silverado Trail. I remember that. I thought someone was following me. Turned out to be Scott Fuller. He tried to run me off the road, we crashed, I got out of my car, and—I’m not sure. We argued. About the arson. I was talking to him,”—asking him whether he killed Victoria Cameron—“I was asking him if he killed Victoria Cameron. Then I felt something sharp and I went down. When I woke up, I was on the ground, I was dizzy—and Fuller’s dead.”
“Dead? How?”
“I don’t know—blood. There’s blood on his chest, I checked for a pulse. But my phone, it’s a new one after the fire, the one you gave me. And there’s no contact list so I don’t have anyone’s number—”
“Karen. Listen to me. I’m going to call Detective Hernandez. Then I’ll call Brix.”
“Call Dixon, Roxxann Dixon.”
“Okay. I’ll call her. How are you, are you able to wait for them?”
“I’m . . . okay, I think. Just have Robby call me. I’ll try to direct him to where I am.”
“Need be, we’ll track your cell signal. Meantime, be careful, Karen. Someone tried to kill you. And he’s still out there.”
“Actually, Art, the guy who tried to kill me is a few feet away from me. Dead. And whoever drugged me and killed him could just as easily have killed me, too. So I think he’s got other plans.”
“Maybe. If this guy’s a narcissist, this could all be part of his game. Showing you how superior he is, that he controls things, not you. He could’ve easily killed you, but didn’t. Maybe next time he will. We don’t know what’s going on yet. But we can’t assume it’s safe just because this one time keeping you alive served his purpose better.”
Vail knew he was right. “Fine. I’ll keep you posted. Just make sure they keep this stuff off the police band.”
She hung up and waited for Robby to call her. Meantime, she didn’t want to move—she’d already compromised the crime scene by crawling through it. At present, less was more. She kept her feet planted.
Robby’s call came through two minutes later. She told him her location, as best she could estimate, then waited. A short time later, two cars pulled up simultaneously, approaching from opposite directions. As Dixon and Robby exited their vehicles, Vail called out to them. As they started toward her, Brix drove up. The three of them left their headlights burning and stood at the edge of the vineyard, twenty yards from Vail’s Taurus. To their right sat Fuller’s upended vehicle.
“Sorry,” Vail called to them.
“For what?” Robby asked.
“The car. It only had thirty thousand miles on it.”
“Are you okay?”
“I’m still groggy and dizzy, but I’ve been worse.” Robby knew firsthand she was telling the truth.
Dixon turned on the black tactical flashlight she was holding and panned it around. She paused on Fuller’s Chrysler. “What happened?”
“Fuller tried to kill me again.”
“Again?” Brix asked.
Vail went through the sequence of events in as much detail as she remembered, including Rooney’s discovery of the sealed record.
Brix and Dixon shared a look of disbelief.
“So that’s what I mean by ‘again.’”
“Until we know for sure,” Brix said, “it’s just a theory.”
Vail let that slide. “Whatever,” she said. “But you may want to notify Stan Owens. I’m sure he’ll want to come down here, ID the body.”
Brix pulled his phone. “Damn straight.”
“Meantime, I’ve gotta find my sidearm without disturbing the area more than I already have.”
“Get Matt Aaron down here,” Brix said to Dixon. “And an ambulance for her.”
“I don’t need an ambulance,” Vail said. “I’ll be okay, I just need some time.”
“You’re getting the ambulance,” Dixon said. “This is no time for tough guy theatrics. Sounds like you were injected with something. Until we get a better handle on what happened to you, we need to do this right.”
Robby took the flashlight from Dixon, then stepped closer to Vail. “I don’t know where the crime scene boundary is, but you think you can catch this?”
“I’m still kind of groggy and unsteady. Just stay there and shine the light on the ground. Maybe I’ll get lucky.”
After several minutes of doing a tight-beamed grid search, Vail saw something metallic at the base of a thick vine. “Over there.” She pointed to the spot and Robby moved a step to his right, crouching lower to change the light’s angle. “Got it.” She stepped a few paces to her left, toward the handgun. “I’m gonna put my business card under a rock to mark where we found it.”
Using the bottom, clean portion of her blouse, Vail picked up the Glock and blew on it to dislodge any loose dirt. She pulled the slide back and gave it another good infusion of air. Then she carefully slipped it into her fanny pack. “I’m gonna have to turn it in to the local resident agency. They’ll send it on to the lab for processing.”
“Did Fuller ever touch it?”
She thought a moment before answering. “I think he just knocked it out of my hand. I picked it up after, so I’m pretty sure there aren’t any of his prints on there.” She carefully made her way out of the vineyard, doing her best to avoid destroying any trace evidence or footprints.
When she reached Robby, they embraced.
“Ready to go home yet?” he asked by her ear.
Vail looked up at him, her expression hard, her jaw set. That was the only answer he needed.
“I’ll call the resident agency, if you want. Which one is it?”
Vail stepped away and brushed back her hair. “Santa Rosa.”
Robby strained to get a look at his watch. “Hopefully I’l
l catch someone working late.” He pulled out his phone and started dialing.
The flash of a first responder’s light bar flickered in the night sky, accompanied by a siren that pierced the countryside like an air raid warning. As Vail sat down on the bumper, a clean-cut paramedic in his late twenties jumped out and attended to her. “How are you doing, ma’am?”
The man’s name was embroidered above his left pocket and read, Marcus. “Much better now,” she said, giving him a quick once over. “Nothing like a man in uniform.”
Marcus shifted his feet, grinned sheepishly, and probably blushed.
Crush (Karen Vail Series) Page 19
